Observant
by scrub456
Summary: Sherlock observes those around him in life post series 4.
1. Familiar

Chapter note: In the familiarity of John being back at Baker Street something odd happens. Sherlock might actually be happy. It's distracting.

* * *

The danger of familiarity rests in complacency.

John Watson suffered restlessness and nightmares for nearly a full week - six sleep deprived nights and one particularly harrowing mid-afternoon kip - the winter his daughter turned two.

He had been reluctant to sell the home that he and Mary had made, such as it was, for Rosie's sake. Never mind that he hated the floor plan, the color scheme in the sitting room, and the table Mary picked for the dining room. The place exuded her very essence, and John, for all that he admitted he never truly knew his wife, felt as if he would be robbing his daughter of something inherently vital if they were to leave.

There was only ever one reason John would relent, and that came down to his even greater reluctance to leave Sherlock to his own devices in the fallout of the events at Sherrinford and the revelation of the existence of Eurus Holmes.

They skirted around the subject of the Watsons relocating to the newly rebuilt 221b Baker Street for weeks. John and Rosie had spent a few nights there, "Nana" Hudson looking after Rosie while Sherlock pushed John to the point of exhaustion for a case that, in the past, would have been deemed too dull to even be considered. Sherlock had been surprisingly timid - to his own chagrin - in extending the invitation over breakfast the third day. John had been equally - infuriatingly so - bashful in saying he'd consider it.

The day John walked in, Rosie on his hip, to find Sherlock halfway through constructing a baby cot (one of those numbers with the ridiculously high safety ratings and can be converted to a toddler bed later on), he knew exactly where he, and more importantly his daughter, belonged. Short work was made of listing the other flat, boxing up a few sentimental things for storage, moving the essentials to Baker Street, and donating or binning everything else.

A month. That was all it took. They'd fallen into comfortable domesticity, and Sherlock found himself more content than he had in a very long time. Not since before. Before Moriarty. Before he left. Before he very nearly lost everything that mattered. It wasn't the same as what he and John had once had, and it never could be after all they had endured, but it was new and better this life they were building. It was reassuring in the uncertainty of the chaos that had come with learning of Eurus. Sherlock, in his brokenness, building a new life with John, who had also been broken, felt familiar. Comfortable. Like Sherlock could finally let his defenses down.

So he did. He let himself delight in the joy and wonder that was Rosie Watson. He relaxed into the renewed companionship he and John were foraging. He stopped deducing and simply enjoyed.

And then John's nightmares began, taking them both by surprise. By the fourth night plagued with images of war - not Sherlock's fall, nor Mary's death - John's nerves were frayed, Rosie, sensing the unease, was fussy, and Sherlock was desperate to find some relief for his friend.

It was possible John felt some remorse for selling the old flat, but if that were so, wouldn't it be images of Mary tormenting him? And it had been weeks since he'd signed the closing papers.

Sherlock knew it wasn't being back at Baker Street. He'd witnessed John more at ease than he'd ever been.

John's shoulder had been aching, but it had been a particularly cold and damp winter. The old wound always troubled him in the winter. Sherlock dismissed that line of thought as well. Until the sixth day with no sleep, when an exhausted John stumbled up the last step and limped into the sitting room, Rosie on his right hip, her changing bag on his left shoulder.

"I'm an idiot!" Sherlock dropped the file folder he'd been reading through and took Rosie from John.

"At times, yes," John smirked then winced as he shrugged out of his coat. "But now I'm curious."

"You're limping." Sherlock nodded in John's direction and bounced Rosie until she stopped squirming and started giggling.

"Okay. And?"

"It's Rosie's bag. The weight of it on your shoulder, and Rosie on your hip, is throwing off your center, you're overcompensating. It's what's causing your shoulder to ache, not the weather, and probably the source of your nightmares. Your mind is remembering the original wound."

"Well, I can't avoid holding my daughter," John huffed.

"No. But we can replace the bag with a backpack." Sherlock shrugged. "And you, Watson," he tapped Rosie's nose causing her to giggle once more, "can stand to be a little more sure-footed so your da doesn't strain himself."

"Oh, god. Don't ask her to grow up any faster than she already is," John chuckled and took Rosie from Sherlock and sat in his chair next to the fire.

Sherlock hummed in contemplation. "John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?" He smiled up at his friend.

"I owe you an apology."

"Whatever for?" John frowned briefly before making a silly face at Rosie.

"I should have figured it out sooner. I iwould/i have figured it out sooner. Before-"

"Stop right there," John shook his head. "This is not a problem. Certainly nothing you need to apologize for. I'm a bloody doctor. I should have realized."

Sherlock sat across from John. "Yes, but… This," he waved between them, "this has become very comfortable, and I've grown complacent."

"You're allowed to be comfortable, Sherlock. Especially at home." John's smile radiated warmth as Rosie cooed and reached for Sherlock.

"But I should have been more vigilant, more observant. I didn't see…"

"I seem to recall a very wise man reminding me that we're all infuriatingly human." John released Rosie to Sherlock and stood. "Tea?"

"John."

"Sherlock," John laughed. "It's fine. I'll change out the bag, thank you for that, and we move on. Maybe you can start being more observant right now."

"Uhm…" Sherlock looked from Rosie to John, his eyes bright with curiosity.

"Rosie is in need of something. Figure out what it is and take care of her for me while I fix the tea?"

"Of course John," Sherlock blinked and turned his focus to Rosie. "What is it you need, Watson?" Rosie babbled at him, then grunted. Sherlock patted her nappy and scowled. "Watson, your da is an evil, evil man."

"Look at that," John laughed from the kitchen. "Observant as ever."


	2. A Rose By Any Other Name

Chapter notes: John wanted to name the baby Catherine. Sherlock calls her Watson. Rosie christens the important people in her life accordingly. What's in a name, after all?

* * *

Rosamund Mary Watson.

There was a time, much earlier in their friendship when a different, more callous, version of himself might have confronted John outright. That version of himself definitely would have confronted Mary.

Sherlock had been pleased with the original plan to name the baby Catherine. A strong name. Classic. Literary. John would have called her Cate, and even that would have been acceptable.

But Mary had persisted, and John had acquiesced. Sherlock had never been fond of the name, and once Mary revealed her true identity, it seemed too weighty for the innocent little girl.

He called her Watson from the first moment he held her in his arms. It had seemed important that he be able to call her a name that meant something to John. The tiny, vulnerable, human cradled to his chest (with the wide, expressive, searching, intense eyes just like her father's) deserved a name that reflected integrity of character. Loyalty. Strength. Love, even.

Then suddenly Mary was gone. There was so little of Mary's legacy that John would actually be able to pass on to his daughter, but she could always carry with her her mother's name.

Even after all the heartache and trauma they'd endured, Sherlock continued to call Rosie 'Watson.' His belief in the strength of the name never faltered, despite John's own wavering opinion.

And for her own part, Rosie Watson never questioned that she was loved. Cherished. Adored.

When she was old enough and able to put her own names to the faces she loved and trusted most, John was first, and perhaps most obviously, designated 'dadadada.'

Then came the day Rosie was left alone with Sherlock while John was seeing to the shopping. Sherlock had scrunched his nose and made a silly sound. Rosie squealed in delight, patted his cheeks with slightly sticky hands, and laughed as she christened him 'Owme.'

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, which was understandable considering the fact that his heart had simultaneously tried to leap right out of him. If not for the squirming toddler in his arms, he would have retreated fully into his mind palace to catalogue the moment for all of eternity. He was blinking back tears and hugging Rosie tightly to his chest when John returned.

"Sherlock? You okay?

With a nod, Sherlock sniffed and kissed Rosie's nose.

"Da!" Rosie shrieked joyfully at John, then patted Sherlock's face. "Owme!" Sherlock gasped and buried his face in Rosie's downy curls.

"Sherlock," John chuckled. "What is the matter?"

"Rosie… She just," he took a deep breath. "Did you hear what she said?"

John nodded. "She was saying it the other day. But I don't know what-"

"I've been teaching her names." He tapped her nose playfully. "Watson." Rosie giggled. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock pointed at John. "John."

"Da! Dadadada!" Rosie clapped her hands.

"I'm sorry, John. I tried to teach her."

"Sherlock," John laughed. "I rather like the name she's given me. I think I'll keep it, if it's all the same to you."

"Very well," Sherlock sighed in feigned resignation, though his smile betrayed him. "And I," he laid his hand on his chest, "am Sherlock Holmes."

"Owme!" Rosie parroted. She grabbed his fingers. "Owme owme owme." Sherlock made a noise that was part sob and part laugh.

John dropped the shopping and left it abandoned by the door. "Oh," he breathed and made no effort to restrain his own tears.

"Yeah," Sherlock huffed a breathy laugh.

"My smart girl," John laughed as he scooped Rosie up and kissed her cheeks until she couldn't stop laughing. He sat in his armchair and studied Sherlock's bewildered expression. "Sherlock, you okay?"

"Better than, actually."

John nodded. "Good." He grinned. "You know, Holmes is tricky to get just right. She icould/i call you da too. Or papa. Or any other-"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm not any of those things."

"Well, that's not true. You're with her as much as I am. You clearly love her. Don't you?"

"Of course," Sherlock whispered.

"And she loves you." John shrugged. "There are plenty of families far more unconventional than ours."

"I think…" Sherlock sniffed. "I think, for now, I rather like the name she's given me as well. It means something to her. Something important. Just like calling you da."

"And you calling her Watson?" John's smile was a bit smug and he laughed when Sherlock's eyes went wide. "You aren't the ionly/i observant one in this house, you know."


End file.
